Page 12 of Burning Hearts
A nod from her read like clearance. A lifted brow was a citation. She didn’t trade gossip so much as quality-check it. And when she chose to say “sugar,” a whole street straightened its shirt.
I pulled out my phone and opened the contact I’d been pretending not to think about.
Me:Your van’s covered until :45.
Three dots appeared on my screen then disappeared before returning.
Cade:Didn’t ask.
Me:Didn’t tell.
Cade:…thanks.
Heat did a private lap under my shirt. I pocketed the phone before I could type something foolish likeno problem, neighbor.
Inside Cast Iron, the air smelled of butter and salvation. It wasn’t a café so much as a command post with an overwhelming aroma of roasted coffee. The bell over the door clinked like a tiny gavel; the chalkboard sermon changed daily.
Today, it read:“Ember City” Swear Jar $1 a slip. (Hi, Beau.)
Technically, Aunt Tansy still owned the building she’d nearly burned down in the Biscuit Fire. Miss Pearl and the Cast Iron Café had moved back in anyway—the address was too good to give up—and she mailed rent checks to my aunt the way some people mailed hate letters.
Mismatched mugs hung like a family tree, and an iron skillet big enough to spook a health inspector anchored the counter as if it had seniority. Customers queued between jars of peach jam, and a vase of magnolia leaves that somehow never browned. And Miss Pearl’s clipboard lived on the edge, her own personal badge.
Crews staged here without admitting they were staging. Gossip cooled on the windowsill beside biscuits.
I watched Miss Pearl as she worked. Her silver curls wouldn’t stay put; she nudged one back with a knuckle while the other hand kept a clipboard steady. She was wearing a striped oxford with the sleeves rolled up and a flour-dusted apron loaded with a Sharpie and a couple of tiny LED candles; her white sneakers squeaked once on the tile.
She clipped my ticket to the spring as if she’d been running this block since sunrise.
“Crew order for Signal House,” I said.
Miss Pearl slid a sack across, heavy with biscuits, a carrier of coffee balanced on top. She tucked a slip beneath the spring.
Peach doodle, tidy print:COUNT THE TOKENS, NOT THE FAVORS. –P
“Two extra meals,” she said. “For people who forget breakfast when they remember ambition.”
I smiled. “Which two people are you referring to?”
Miss Pearl only grinned and nodded in the direction of Cade’s Brickyard van.
Back on the sidewalk, Riverfield was switching itself on: #TeamBrew and #TeamSignal tally boxes chalked outside thecoffee shop. A kid in a bow tie hauled a tripod. Wick & Wax wrestled a banner in a font that was anything but subtle.
I lined up the coffee on a low table we’d claimed. Public space, private manners.
I checked the time. Ten to ten. Couples with dogs walking around, parents with strollers. Three retirees in TEAM BREW pins with the solemnity of medals.
Across Peachtree Commons, Brickyard’s footprint came together with unshowy competence. Tables set to invite flow, an A-frame that read LEAVE CENTER LANE OPEN; three cones standing like monks.
Cade bent over a crate, sleeves rolled up, with his attention focused.
A man you could hand a problem to and expect it back smaller.
My thumb betrayed me.
Me:For the record, you didn’t have to last night with the sprinkler math.
The dots appeared, stalled, then returned.
